


Four Horsemen

by okapi



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Come Sharing, Community: watsons_woes, Crack, Double Anal Penetration, Fluff, Four Horsemen, Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse - Freeform, Foursome - M/M/M/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Penicillin - Freeform, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Story: The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter, Threesome - M/M/M, Voyeurism, armadillos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-08-07
Packaged: 2018-07-19 17:22:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 9,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7370809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of the world is determined by the roll of dice. The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have a lot of sex while they wait. With Mycroft as Famine; John as Pestilence; Lestrade as War; and, of course, Sherlock as Death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Technically no incest but Sherlock & Mycroft are at the same orgy so YMMV.
> 
> For the July 2016 Watson's Woes prompt 02: Roll the dice. Have a character take a risk, whether it's a calculated or a foolhardy one.

Three sets of eyes looked up, did not blink.

Dark clouds formed points in the sky.

“Three,” counted John.

“And four,” added Lestrade.

 “Not unexpected,” said Mycroft. “Nevertheless…”

The three sighed.

“Like the army,” said Lestrade ruefully.

“Yeah, hurry up and wait,” agreed John.

There was a rumbling in the distance that grew louder, closer. A grey fog rolled in.

“Here he comes,” said Mycroft. “Late as usual.”

A pale horse approached at a gallop.

“You missed it,” said Lestrade. “Seven. A three and a four.”

“Sherlock, where have you been?” asked John.

“No one would stop for me,” said Sherlock as he swung down from the saddle. “So I kindly stopped for them.”

“So we wait,” said Lestrade, lifting his gaze as the seven points evaporated.

“For the next roll of the dice,” said John. “Until then?”

“Picnic?” suggested Mycroft. The three turned their heads. “I have provisions,” he explained.

“Naturally,” said Sherlock with a sneer. “How would you manage a famine if you didn’t eat all the food? I surprised that you want to share, though.”

“Listen, Grimmy—“ began Mycroft.

“Don’t call me ‘Grimmy’!” cried Sherlock. “Death. Mister Death. Your Royal Deathness.”

John cast a wry glance at Lestrade. “Are you going to stop them?”

“’War,’ remember? I’m for more conflict, not less.” He frowned. “Although ‘Holmesian bickering’ is one of my least favourite forms of it.”

“Picnic sounds great,” said John, stepping between Sherlock and Mycroft. “Let’s find a nice spot.”  

And so the four riders mounted their steeds and journeyed in a line. John led atop a white horse, with his bow and crown. Next was Lestrade on a red horse, sword at his side. Mycroft followed with a pair of scales in his hand, riding a black horse laden with heavy packs. Sherlock brought up the rear on his pale horse, grumbling.

“I should be at the front of the line.”

The other three let out a collective sigh.

“It is too bad…” said John.

“…that we can’t actually kill him,” finished Lestrade.

“Of course you can’t kill me!” cried Sherlock. Then he said, “I wonder which one of you, Pestilence or War, is the stronger? In numbers. My numbers, of course.”

“Nice try,” said Lestrade.

“Won’t work, Sherlock,” said John. “Lestrade and I work very nicely together.”

Sherlock huffed.

“There,” said Mycroft.

Even Sherlock admitted that the spot was ideal. A stream. Soft grass. Rolling hills with wildflowers. Tall trees forming a shaded canopy and thick hedges shielding the view of the road. They settled their horses by the water.

Mycroft rolled out a large blanket, then began to unpack the comestibles.

“Just tea for me, thanks,” said Sherlock, brushing his mount.

“You are going to eat, Sherlock,” said John. “You’re skin and bones.”

“I am supposed to be skin and bones! Who ever heard of a fat Death? Now, Famine, on the other hand, oink, oink, oink. That’s why you need that massive stallion—or is that an elephant?—and not something lithe and supple like my Belstaff.”

The black horse snorted and pawed the ground. The pale horse lifted his head with a haughty look.

Mycroft made to rise, but, once again, John stepped between them. “Sherlock, you are going to eat or you won’t get any dessert.”

“Quite all right, John. I’m quite sure Mycroft’s already scarfed down all the cake,” replied Sherlock. “If there was any to begin with,” he added hastily.

“I’m not talking about cake.”

Sherlock’s gaze fell to John’s crotch. After a long moment, he said, “I’ll have a sandwich.”

Behind them, Lestrade laughed.

Mycroft held open one of the packs. Sherlock peered inside. He frowned.

“What is that orange—?”

“Hey, don’t take my pimento cheese!” barked Lestrade. He leaned forward and batted Sherlock’s hand, then he turned to Mycroft. “You remembered?”

Mycroft smiled. “Of course.”

The four settled on the blanket.

“You know what would be excellent right now?”

“I’ve got it,” said Lestade. He jumped up and went to his saddle bag and produced two small bottles.

“Beer!” cried John. “Well done.”

Lestrade tossed a bottle to John. “Booze is good for my business.”

“Not bad for mine either,” said John. “Thanks.”

Lestrade retrieved another longer, thinner, more elegant bottle from his pack.

“Oh, Gregory! You also remembered,” said Mycroft.

“You’re ‘Famine’ not ‘Thirst,’ right?”

“Precisely.”

“How about me?” cried Sherlock. “Didn’t anyone remember me?! John, did you bring me a nice Montrachet?”

John shook his head. “I’ll make you some tea, though.”

Sherlock huffed. He drew his knees to his chest.

“Oh, Sherlock,” cooed John, setting his beer aside and crawling on all fours. “Don’t pout, love.” He looked from Lestrade to Mycroft as he moved closer to Sherlock. They grinned and nodded and began unfastening their cloaks.

“I’ve got something for you, Sherlock.” John raised up on his knees and unfastened his breeches. “Big and hard and just waiting for you to swallow it down. My gorgeous Death. Come on love. Don’t you want a taste?” John freed his cock. he was only half-hard, but Sherlock’s gaze was hot and hungry. John’s cock twitched in response.

Sherlock gave John’s cock a last look of longing, then turned away. “No!” he said petulantly. Then he looked back over his shoulder with one eyebrow raised. “Not unless you feed it to me,” he said coyly.

“Oh you little tart!” cried Lestrade. He was naked, reclined against a grassy incline, with arms bent and hand clasped behind his head; Mycroft’s head was buried between his legs. He took one hand and petted Mycroft’s hair.

“God, My, you’re going to suck every last drop out of me, aren’t you?”

Mycroft pulled off to say, “Leave you barren, wasted.”

“Wrecked,” added Lestrade, grinning. “That mouth, ugh.” He brushed a thumb across Mycroft’s bottom lip.

Mycroft kissed, then licked, Lestrade’s inner thighs. Then he nuzzled at the creases and took each of Lestrade’s sacs in his mouth in turn, caressing them with his tongue.

“My, I’m ready. Let me come down your throat.”

Mycroft sprang up. “Gregory, I would not be opposed to a bit of vigour in your efforts.”

"Yeah, I'll fuck you rough," Lestrade groaned. He gripped Mycroft’s head and guided his cock between Mycroft’s open lips. He thrust, gently then not-so-gently, until he spent himself. His eyes drifted to Sherlock and John, just in time to see John’s head tilt back, his hips buck, and his mouth form a silent shout.

“What a sweet little cock-sucker!” breathed Lestrade. “I _will_ be fucking that arse!” he called to Sherlock.

“I’m going to fuck it first,” said John, with a grin, running a hand over Sherlock’s buttock, then slapping it hard.

“You want to bet?” asked Lestrade, kissing Mycroft on the top of the head and easing out from under him.

“No, games are chance are for,” John gestured to the clouds above them, “I want a game of strength and skill: wrestling.”

* * *

Sherlock and Mycroft panted in unison as they watched John and Lestrade wrestle; oiled bodies slid over one another, each vying for dominance.

“Oh, oh, oh.”

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. “Ugh! Put your grotesque tumescence away! I don’t want to see that!”

“Do you think I want to see your bony offering?! You have no choice but to avert your gaze, Sherlock, because if you think that I am going to miss one minute of this, you’re barking. Oh, Gregory’s pinned him. Such exertion! Muscles. Sweat. Oh, oh, oh.”

Mycroft and Sherlock came as Lestrade raised two arms and cried, “Victory!”

* * *

“Fuck, yes,” groaned Lestrade and John in unison when their cocks were fully sheathed.

Sherlock and Mycroft’s echoed groans were muffled by the blanket.

Hips began to piston and the collective groaning grew louder and less muffled.

John came, then Lestrade. They collapsed onto the blanket beside each other.

Sherlock raised a head, then Mycroft, who said, “Nothing like being the spoils of War. Or Plague.”

Lestrade and John giggled and were still giggling when they brought their partners off with slicked fists.  

Then John ordered, “Wash.”

“And nap,” added Lestrade.

The four rinsed in the stream and settled on an expanse of cool grass.

* * *

John woke to fingers probing and a growl in his ear. He smiled and translated gesture and sound to Sherlock who was pressed against his chest.

They were spooned together, fucking and being fucked. Cocks hard, sliding in holes and between thighs. Nipples pebbling under teasing thumbs and fingers. Heads thrown back, heads curling forward, tongues licking shoulders and necks, sighs, grunts, pleas for more.

“Gregory.” Mycroft’s voice was strained.

“Make a mess of me, love. You can lick it up while I finish in John.”

Mycroft groaned.

“Doesn’t anybody remember me?” whined Sherlock.

“Difficult to forget since I’m cock-deep in you, love,” said John hoarsely. “Oh, fuck!”

“Take it, you sickly beast,” teased Lestrade as he came. Then he sank his teeth into John’s shoulder ridge.

John shouted at the bite and ground his hips harder into Sherlock until he came. Then he reached around to grasp Sherlock’s cock.

“Finally,” complained Sherlock.

John giggled as he jerked Sherlock off. “Death always comes last.”

“You are ill,” said Sherlock sternly, but his eyes were soon glazing over with lust.

“No, but close,” said John as he brought Sherlock off with a whimper.

* * *

Far above, odds were being weighed.

_It’s risk. But I guess it’s time. They certainly don’t need any more preparation. Or any more leisure!_

A pair of dice were thrown.

* * *

Four sets of eyes looked up, did not blink.

Two points formed in the sky.

Four mouths cried with joy,

“SNAKE EYES!”


	2. Penicillin. (H/C. Sherlock/John.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pestilence has a secret. 
> 
> 500 words. Rating: Teen. H/C. Sherlock/John (Death/Pestilence). Written for the LJ Watson's Woes #07 prompt: epidemic.

John smiled into the reflecting pool.

“John.”

“Sherlock!”

John quickly waved a hand over the water and stood. “What did I tell you about creeping up on me?”

“Yelling your name from afar is hardly creeping, John. What are you looking at?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” Sherlock peered over John’s shoulder. “Who were you watching? Someone on my list?”

“No.”

Sherlock leaned into John. “You’re flush. Excited. New outbreak? New vector?”

“No and no. How is your day?”

“Boring until this minute. Now I have a mystery to solve. What has Pestilence so excited?”

“I have another for you. Why is Death so nosy?”

“Should I be jealous? Do I a rival?”

John rolled his eyes. “I’m going to back to work. It’s Mosquito Monday.”

He made to push by Sherlock, but Sherlock caught him around the waist and pressed his lips to John’s neck. “I will understand, John,” he murmured against John’s skin.

Their eyes met, and John sighed. Then he led Sherlock back to the pool and waved his hand.

Images flickered on the surface of the water.

“September. 1928. There’s been a cold snap, but the weather is unseasonably warm now. Perfect conditions for what’s happened.”

Sherlock hummed. “St. Mary’s. London. I know it well.”

“Fleming. The Inoculations Department laboratory. There. He’s found it. He’s not binning that petri dish. He’s actually looking into it.”

“There’s…”

“Mould. And the _staphylocci_ bacteria near the mould are dying. And Fleming’s the one who’s finally going to put it all together.” John turned his head. His smile was radiant. “Penicillin,” he whispered.

“You like it when they beat you.”

John nodded. “I think I might have made a good doctor if I hadn’t been chosen to, you know, herald the end of the world.”

“I envy you, John.” Sherlock’s smile faded.

“How so?”

“No one beats me. Not for long.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John brushed Sherlock’s hair with his hand. Sherlock lifted his head and gave John a shy look. Their lips met in a soft kiss.

“Are you finished for the day?” asked John.

Sherlock nodded. He leaned in for another kiss.

This one was long and achingly tender.

John looked up and asked, “Why don’t I lay you down right here by the water and give my _Gran Mort_ a bunch of _petite morts_?“

“And old joke,” complained Sherlock, but he wrapped his arms tighter around John and kissed the top of his head.

“But a good one! And then tomorrow we can skip ahead to November and go to one of your parades.”

“Día de los Muertos."

“You love those! Dancing. Little sugar skulls. Cemeteries. No one will notice us in our skeleton costumes.”

Sherlock feigned thought, then the corners of his mouth twitched.

John tugged Sherlock’s tunic over his head and tossed it to the ground. “You are gorgeous.”

As they sank to the ground, Sherlock gave a final glance to the pond. “You are going to fight that, no?”

“Oh, yeah, but antibiotic resistance, like mosquitos, can wait.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am liking this AU. I hope you are, too.


	3. Donut. (Lestrade/John. Cute.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade/John. Humor. Cute. Hand job. Anal sex. 
> 
> For the LJ Watson's Woes prompt (JWP09): Quote of the Day: **"Please stop petting the test subjects."** Use this however this inspires you.

"Please stop petting the test subjects, Greg," said John.

“But they’re so cute.” He set the dark grey lop-eared bundle in the hutch.

“Shut the door, please.”

“John…”

“Oh no, as soon as I finish with these prairie dogs, those rabbits are next. Tularemia.”

“John…” Greg moved closer until he was behind John. He slipped his arms around John’s waist.

“I am very behind in my work, Greg. Sherlock and I took a holiday that lasted a bit longer than expected…”

“John…”

Greg nuzzled the side of John’s neck, then licked along his nape, ruffled the short hairs with one hand, then smoothed them.

“I don’t go to your workshop and tell you to give peace a chance!”

“You’re tan,” said Greg, looking up and down John’s body. “Have fun?”

“Yes, that’s why…”

Greg pushed up the sleeve of John’s tunic. “No tan lines.” Then he burrowed a hand between John’s tunic and breeches, pushing aside fabric and exposing a swathe of brown skin. “Anywhere. A lot of fun.”

“Mexican beaches are quite lovely.”

Greg licked his forefinger and thumb. He slid his hand under John’s tunic and began toying with a nipple.

John leaned back into Greg’s chest. He threw his head back, closed his eyes, and licked his lips. Greg moved to the other nipple, teasing it until he felt it pebble, then pinching it gently.

“John…”

“If I say ‘yes’ are you going to stop?” he breathed.

“Yes.”

“Then no.”

Greg leaned forward. From the multitude of jars on the table, he selected one.

“So that’s where all that goes!” cried John. “I run out every single day!”

Greg chuckled. “Unless you want War on his knees…”

“I’ve got work to do,” whined John.

Then the jar was opened and Greg was shoving a slicked hand down the front of John’s breeches. John pushed them down to his thighs; his erection jutted out from a patch of wiry hair.

“Gorgeous cock,” whispered Greg. “I bet Sherlock won’t be sitting easy in the saddle for a week.”

John smirked.

Greg grabbed John’s cock with a tight fist.  “The kid’s got a mouth. He suck you all night?”

“We had a very nice time.”

 “I bet you did. Sand. Surf. That delectable arse. John…”

“No.”

They rocked together as Greg pumped. John came with a cry.

“You just ruined a good batch of plague!” he complained.

“ _You_ just ruined it with your big, fat streaks of gorgeous come.” Lestrade nudged the cleft of John’s bare arse with his clothed erection.

John looked over his shoulder, then dropped his gaze. Lestrade leaned back a bit so that the outline of his hard prick was clearly visible. He ran a flat hand down the front of his breeches.

“John…”

“No,” John said with a wicked grin.

\---

Lestrade jerked, shooting stream after stream into John. He smiled at the bite marks that covered John’s neck and shoulders and the faint outline of a handprint on John’s buttock. Jealous Sherlock was not necessarily a bad thing—except for the poor folks whose number was up today. They would be dying in spectacularly gruesome ways. As the warm glow faded, Lestrade’s thoughts turned to the hutch.

“John…”

“Yes,” he sighed.

\---

“My, my, my! Look what I got!”

Mycroft wiped his mouth with his napkin as the red horse approached. Lestrade was cradling a dark furry lump in his arms.

“I am going to call him ‘Donut’! Isn’t he the cutest? John gave him to me.”

Mycroft smiled and covered his plate with a silver dome.

His _lapin à la moutarde_ could wait.


	4. Lie-in. (John/Sherlock/Lestrade)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Death has an unauthorised lie-in. John/Sherlock/Lestrade. Double penetration. Intro and conclusion featuring God and God's right hand, Mrs. Hudson.
> 
> For the 2016 LJ Watson's Woes prompt #10: A Higher Power.
> 
> Those who like this might also like [Field and Fountain, Moor and Mountain](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5600236/chapters/12903679).

_“So how are things this morning, Mrs. Hudson?”_

_“Pestilence performed his prayer and ablution at daybreak. He’s at work.”_

_“Today is…?”_

_“Foul Water Wednesday, my Lord.”_

_“Good. War?”_

_“Also performed his morning devotional salutations. He is leading his personal guard in some exercises…hmm…very…vigorous…exercises…”_

_“Mrs. Hudson!”_

_“Oh yes, my Lord, where was I? Famine is breakfasting.”_

_“At this hour?”_

_“He rose before dawn, my Lord, offered sacrifice, and did some remarkable work with mould and potatoes.”_

_“I expect a full briefing this afternoon. Death?”_

_“Asleep.”_

_“Still?!”_

_“Yes, my Lord.”_

_“Send War and Pestilence to rouse him. Now.”_

_“Yes, my Lord.”_

* * *

“Wakey, wakey! Eggs and bakey!” cried Lestrade as he raised a plate brimming with food.

The shroud-wrapped cocoon did not move. It hung suspended between two trees like a hammock.

“See I told you that it wasn’t going to work,” said John.

Lestrade winked. “I will never understand how someone can resist the smell of bacon. Crispy, crispy…”

A hand appeared, then disappeared, in a flash.

Lestrade looked down at the plate. One rasher had vanished.

There was crunching, then a noise that resembled “just tea for me, thanks.” 

“In that case, I’m going to finish this,” said Lestrade. “Hate to waste food.” He sat down on a tree stump. “How’s your work going today, John?” he asked with a forkful of eggs in his mouth.

“Splendid. Yours?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Not bad.”

“How about I make tea?”

* * *

“Water’s boiled, right?” teased Lestrade as he took a steaming mug from John.

“Har, har, har,” said John as he sat a second mug on the ground beneath the cocoon.

“Hey, I’m thinking of going to the small stream to wash today.”

“The one beyond the clover fields?”

Lestrade hummed.

“It’s a narrow stream,” said John with a grin.

Lestrade glanced at the cocoon. “Narrow, tight, perfect.”

“Think we could both wash at the same time?”

“I don’t know. Might be a bit risky.”

True. Worth exploring though, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, and even if that doesn’t work, we can take turns, then dry off in the clover fields.”

John stared, then his eyes widened. “Lots of bees there, yeah?” he said slowly.

Lestrade grunted and polished off the rest of the food, save for a triangle of toast and a rasher, which he balanced on the top of the untouched mug on the ground.

“Let’s go,” he said.

* * *

Lestrade stopped splashing and looked over his shoulder. “Seen enough?” he called.

Sherlock appeared on the ridge overlooking the stream.

“If you’ve made your offering for the day, you can join us,” yelled John. “Otherwise, you’re going to have to just watch.”

Sherlock scowled, then disappeared in a huff.

* * *

“OH GOD!”

“Told you,” grunted Sherlock. One hand reached back, one hand curled forward, long fingers woven in damp hair, blonde and salt-and-pepper grey.

“So tight,” whimpered John into Sherlock’s skin. He was suckling the side of Sherlock’s neck like a hungry newborn babe.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” chanted Lestrade. “I feel your cock, John, your cock and this gorgeous, gorgeous—God Almighty—gorgeous arse. Takin’ two big, fat, hard cocks at once. Extraordinary.”

“Hey, that’s my line,” groaned John. “Amazing. Fantastic. Takin’ us both.”

“Death takes everyone,” said Sherlock with a chuckle. “Except Mycroft,” he added quickly.

Lestrade moaned. “I’ve got to move. I’ve got to thrust. I’ve got to fuck this sweet arse. I can’t wait.”

“Gentle, Greg.”

“Yeah, easy, easy, like this, like this, like—“

“OH GOD!”

* * *

Sherlock closed his eyes and listened to the buzzing.

Warm sun overhead.

Warm tongue in his arse.

Warm mouth on his cock.

Bees dancing all around.

He smiled.

The start of a good day.

* * *

_“…but my Lord!”_

_“I know, Mrs. Hudson, not conventional, but consider the end as well as the means:  he did an unprecedented amount of work in just half a day. Death is always going to tricky.”_

_“Your wonders to perform, my Lord.”_


	5. Ouzo. (Lestrade/Mycroft/John.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft extends a dinner invitation after a successful collaboration. Lestrade/Mycroft/John. References to canon story & Granada versions of "The Greek Interpreter." Mentions of come play.
> 
> For the 2016 LJ Watson's Woes prompt #11: Threesome.

“My dear, what is on the menu for the evening’s gathering?”

“Lamb.”

“Oh.”

“You did say Hellenistic, didn't you, sir?”

“Yes, quite right, and the perfect choice under normal circumstances, but I’ve invited Gregory as well as Sherlock and John. I’ve not seen him for some days. For all I know, he may have adopted an adorable ‘fleece as white as snow,’ if you catch my meaning.”

“Always, sir.”

“Could you perhaps find an unsightly, unendearing, yet tasty creature for us to consume?”

“Would you consider a series of _mezedes_?”

“Good idea, and it’s unlikely that Gregory’s formed an attachment to aubergines.”

“Or cephalopods, at least, not while overseeing a war between landlocked nations.”

“Very true. Well done, my dear. Crisis averted.”

“Thank you, sir.”

* * *

Mycroft threw open the door.

“Welcome!”

“Thank you,” said John.

“Oh, no Sherlock?” Mycroft feigned disappointment.

John’s rueful smile hinted at ‘a bit of domestic.’ “He sends his regrets…”

Hardly.

“…but he is still working and plans to be all night.”

“Well, he does have all the energy of the family,” said Mycroft dryly.

In the distance, a thunderous cloud of red hooves and dust grew thicker and louder with each passing second.

“Hello!” cried Lestrade as he slid from the saddle. “Seeing as how I’m crashing the party—“

“You’re always welcome, Gregory,” said Mycroft.

“—I brought the ouzo!” He lifted a bottle in the air triumphantly, and Mycroft and John cheered. “Now I want to hear all about this Greek case of yours.”

* * *

Mycroft refilled their glasses. “The forced starvation was the part of Mister Melas’ tale that distressed me the most. Amateurs meddling in matters far above them. However, I recognised at once that the situation would require a certain vigour, so I called on Sherlock and John to aide me in resolving the matter.”

John sipped, then set his glass down. “Which we did. Turns out they were villains of the first order. Evil, not just weak.”

“Indeed,” said Mycroft. “Sherlock indulged in a bit of dramatics with Latimer.”

“Smashed on the side of a train,” said John. “Kemp was stabbed.”

“But, with John’s assistance of course, Sherlock actually spared the life of Mister Melas. Mister Kratides, I regret to say, was not as fortunate. That I count that as failure.”

“Not just you,” said John softly into his glass before draining it.

There was a somber pause, and Mycroft feared that the mood would descend permanently into melancholy when, with forced cheerfulness, John said, “So, there’s our story. All in all, an intriguing case, and it was a pleasure to work with you.” He gave a gallant nod to Mycroft, who returned the gesture.

Then they both turned to Lestrade.

“So, how have you been, Greg?”

Lestrade groaned. “A land war in Asia. Where to begin?”

* * *

“And then, and then…!”

They laughed hysterically, each ensconced in a large comfortable armchair.

“What?” cried Lestrade.

Mycroft cocked his finger. “I put it to his temple and said, ‘I believe this is your revolver, sir.’”

“No!” said Lestrade. He doubled over.

John wiped his eyes and nodded. “He did! It was priceless.” Then he sniffed and sighed. “Oh, that’s the last of the ouzo.” He kicked the empty bottle on the floor.

“For the best,” said Lestrade. “I’m…” He waved his hand in a vague flourish.

“Me too. Mycroft, you don’t seem as pissed as we are.”

“Tolerance is greatly influenced by body mass, of which I have the advantage of you both.”

“I don’t know, Greg’s a pretty big boy,” said John with a smirk.

Lestrade’s response was to grab his crotch and kick the bottle back towards John.

Mycroft knew his own words to be smoke screen. The drink was having its effect. His appreciation of his guests was taking on a decidedly carnal, and lascivious, aspect. He observed their flush faces and youthful grins. The way that touched themselves, Gregory, his chest, and John, his thigh. Idle self-pleasuring gestures of which he doubted they were even aware.

Fetching, nonetheless.

As was the way that they looked at him. And each other.

There was a grain of truth in the statement that Sherlock had all the energy of the family for even in his lust, Mycroft was plagued by inertia, the desire to remain wedded to his chair almost neared his desire for the two virile figures before him.

A look passed between John and Lestrade. Then they discarded their tunics and sandals and sank to the floor, crawling towards him on hands and knees.

“Do you know what I told Kemp when I stole his gun?” Mycroft asked.

They shook their heads as they approached.

“’I sometimes forget my size,’” he replied, cackling.

John growled. “Let us take turns helping you remember.”

As Mycroft inched toward the edge of the chair, John yanked at the front of his breeches and swallowed his cock.

Mycroft’s head fell back.

“What do you want?” asked Lestrade.

Without opening his eyes, Mycroft said, “Watch you fuck him.” John’s moan produced a delicious tremor that reverberated through Mycroft’s body.

* * *

What had Kemp called Greece? Land of gods, olives, and intrigue.

Prick.

And not the good kind. Not the kind that Mycroft was watching disappear into a deftly-stretched arsehole. Not the kind that was being roughly jerked through a slicked fist. And not the kind that was being sucked very close to climax.

He felt the tightening in himself. Out of courtesy, for he was not given to much of the usual moaning and groaning, he grunted and watched the dominoes of pleasure fall. Himself into John’s mouth, John onto the floor, and Gregory into John’s arse.

They remain fixed in a sweaty, heaving tableau for a moment, then Mycroft’s eyes met Gregory’s. His body shuddered at the words that followed.

“Don’t swallow it all, John. Give it to me while he eats my come out of you.”

As John turned, Mycroft made a note to entertain the notion of dinner parties—and professional cooperation—more often.


	6. The War of the Fez. (Sherlock/John. Mycroft/Lestrade.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conflict ensues when Lestrade tries to commander another animal of John's. Sherlock/John. Mycroft/Lestrade. Voyeurism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was started yesterday for the LJ Watson's Woes prompt (Nature is red in tooth and claw), but I didn't get it finished in time. Hope you enjoy.

“No!” cried John.

“Why not?”

“What about Jerusalem?”

Lestrade scowled. “What about it?”

“Why don’t you spare it?”

“That’s…”

“Work? Well these are _my_ work.” John gestured to the animals in the pen. “It took me a very long time to collect them, and I have something specific in mind. You cannot have them as pets!”

“John…”

“Oh, why don’t you go sack something holy?”

“Fine!”

Lestrade stormed off.

John slammed the door to the pen and locked it. “I’ll deal with you when I’m not so bloody angry,” he growled.

* * *

“Sherlock.”

“Go away, Mycroft.”

“Three.”

“Oh, we are counting high today, aren’t we?”

“They haven’t spoken to each other in three days. This feud is childish. People are suffering.”

“People are _supposed_ to suffer. It’s our job.”

“But they’re suffering in a disorganised fashion. If you and I combine efforts, a reconciliation might be realised sooner.”

“Perhaps.”

“Reconciliation is usually accompanied by a certain _joie de vivre_.”

“Is that what you call it?”

* * *

Lestrade looked down from his saddle. John looked up from the shelled creature wriggling on his work bench.

They spoke at the same time.

“I’m sorry.”

Both laughed.

“Want to go for a ride?” asked Lestrade.

“Sure.” John returned the animal to a pen with the others and shut the door. “I’ll finish you later.”

“I was wrong,” said Lestrade.

John turned quickly. Then he shrugged. “I understand, Greg, believe me, I do, but…”

“Yeah, I know. Get Browning and let’s go. I’ll race you to the ridge.”

John grinned. “You’re on.”

* * *

“You won this one,” said John with a laugh. “Barely.”

“Calvary practice never goes amiss. Best two out of three?”

John looked into the distance. “Uh-oh. Those aren’t dice clouds. There’s a storm coming.”

The horses whinnied.

Lestrade scanned the horizon, then pointed. “The nearest stables are there. There’s a barn, too, but we’d better hurry.”

“It’s really coming down out there.”

“Yeah. I’m glad that Sherlock is…”

Lestrade squinted. “Coming over the hill?”

“What? No!” John’s eyes followed Lestrade. “With Mycroft? What would bring _him_ out in weather like this?”

“Maybe they were looking for us.”

John laughed. “Nah.”

* * *

“See? They didn’t need our help. They’re already reconciled,” said Sherlock as they settled the horses in the stables.

“Were you worried?” asked John.

“No,” said Mycroft quickly. “We just happened to be in the neighbourhood.”

Lestrade snorted. “Try again.”

“We work better as a team,” said Mycroft. “Discord is bad for business.”

“Well, I don’t think anyone is going to get any work done anytime soon,” said John, frowning at the grey sky.

Lestrade moved behind John and looked over his shoulder at the barn. “Anyone for a roll in the hay?”

“First one there gets the loft!” cried John as he raced off.

Lestrade ran after him, whooping.

Sherlock and Mycroft looked at each other, then looked at the open doors.

“ _Joie de vivre_?” asked Sherlock.

“ _Mais oui_ ,” replied Mycroft as they strode slowly into the rain.

* * *

“Not disappointed I lost?” whispered Lestrade.

Mycroft chuckled and drew Lestrade closer to him. “Not at all. Someone of my size prefers to be as close to the ground as possible.”

Lestrade buried his face in Mycroft’s neck. They were side by side, nestled in the hay.

There was a groan, then a rustling. Pieces of straw fell around them.

“Sherlock’s getting his cock sucked,” said Lestrade.

Mycroft hummed. “Bit of a turn-about.”

_“Oh, John.”_

Lestrade began to rut gently against Mycroft’s leg. “I like listening to them fucking.”

Mycroft tilted his head to look down at Lestrade and smiled. “Naughty boy.”

They teased each other with slow, playful caresses as the erotic noises continued overhead.

_“Please, John.”_

“He’s begging for that tongue in his arse, isn’t he?” asked Lestrade. He was stroking Mycroft’s cock idly with a spit-slicked hand.

“Impatient as always.”

There was a whimper.

Mycroft and Lestrade looked at each other with raised eyebrows.

_“John!”_

“Just fingering, but he found the sweet spot,” said Lestrade.

_“John, John, John…”_

“Sherlock’s close,” said Mycroft. “I believe the term is ‘deep-throating.’”

“You ought to know,” said Lestrade with a nip at Mycroft’s neck. Mycroft pinched Lestrade’s nipple in reply.

_“JOHN!”_

“Speaking of turn-about, if we had some proper slick…” Something heavy landed in the hay next to Lestrade. “Well now, that is a wonder,” he said, plucking the jar from the straw.  

_“You’re welcome.”_

* * *

“Good thing I brought two jars,” said John, looking down from the loft.

Sherlock’s grunt was muffled by straw. He turned his head and cracked one eye.

John was on his knees, stroking his hard, leaking prick. “Your brother’s mounting Lestrade. Oh, fuck. I like watching them.”

“Lestrade’s appreciation for wildlife extends to anal sex with waterbuffalo.”

 “He’s taking that big cock like a greedy little whore,” said John with a smirk.

_“Go fuck yourself!”_

John laughed. “That’s what I’m doing right now, princess!” he cried. “Watching your sweet arse gobble that fat prick like it was made for it!” His hips bucked as his fist pumped faster.

“John…”

John turned his head and panted, “Lick me clean when I’m done, yeah?”

Sherlock growled.

* * *

Lestrade snuggled closer to Mycroft. “Been a strange day,” he mused. Then he sat up abruptly.

“Gregory?”

“I just realised something.”

_“OH, FUCK!”_

_“John?”_

_“I just realised something. I forgot to lock the pen! And I wasn’t finished! Now they’ll only be carriers of leprosy!”_

“I believe that a group of armadillo is, in some parts, called a fez,” said Mycroft, stifling a laugh.

Lestrade fell back into the hay, howling.

“RUN, FEZ, RUN!”


	7. Someone to Watch Over Me. (John/Mycroft/Lestrade.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft rescues John . PWP. Mycroft/John/Lestrade. Blow job. Anal sex. Voyeurism. 
> 
> For the 2016 LJ Waton's Woes prompt #21. Song title. Someone to Watch Over Me.

“Now I’ve got you!” John lunged, throwing his net.

“Whoa! Whoa!”

He lost his footing and tumbled down a ravine.

“Damn it! Lost them again!”

He stared at the sheer steep walls of rock around him. “How am I going to get out of here?”

A knotted rope descended from above.

John looked up and squinted. “Well, aren’t you an answer to prayer?”

* * *

“Not what people usually say,” replied Mycroft when John reached the top.

“What do they usually say?”

“’I’m starving!’ You left Browning at some distance.”

“Yeah, I’ve been hunting on foot all morning.”

“May I offer you a ride?” Mycroft gestured to the black horse. “Umbrella’s strength is only surpassed by his intelligence.”

“Thanks.”

Mycroft returned to the saddle. John climbed in front of him. Dry, rocky desert turned to meadow and then shaded forest.

“What luck! I might have been stuck in that hole for some time. Did you see me fall?”

Mycroft hesitated. “In reflection.”

“Wait, you were watching me?”

“I prefer ‘watching over.’ I watch over all the horsemen. I’m concerned.”

Mycroft pressed his lips to John’s neck.

“Mycroft, that sounds a little,” John glanced overhead, “blasphemous.”

“I make my offerings every morning, John. I am only a weak extension of the one who watches over all of us.”

He kissed John’s neck again. John hummed and tilted his head.

Mycroft’s mouth continued its ministrations, licking and sucking and worrying the same spot. A hand slipped beneath John’s tunic.

“You’re not hurt?”

“A bump or bruise,” murmured John, guiding Mycroft’s hand across his torso. “But you’d best check.”

Mycroft hummed and caressed John’s chest. He teased John’s nipples until they pebbled, and he began gently biting John’s neck, then licking his own teeth marks. “I would very much like to suck your cock, John,” he breathed onto John’s skin.

John grunted.

They dismounted and stripped. Then John sat back against a hollow, moss-covered log that lay felled on the forest floor.

Mycroft lowered himself slowly to the ground, then buried his face in John’s crotch. He licked John’s shaft, then his balls, then kissed and licked along his inner thighs and the creases of his pelvis. Finally, he took John’s cock in his mouth.

“So good,” cooed John as he lifted his hips slightly. “All right if I fuck that mouth a little?”

Mycroft hummed.

John put one hand on Mycroft’s head and pulsed up into his mouth.

Then John heard a noise in the distance. Mycroft pulled off to say, “Gregory.” Then he immediately returned to sucking of John’s prick.

“Where are you, cocksucker?” cried John, smiling.

“I believe that title is already taken,” answered a voice. “I’m just watching.”

“And getting hard, you pervert!” called John, whipping his head around, trying to catch a glimpse of the speaker.

There was a laugh.

“There’s a sweet little arsehole right here that needs fucking. I’m sure Mycroft won’t mind if I offer it up. We can spit-roast this beautiful man and give him all the cock he can take.”

Mycroft whimpered and lifted his arse.

Lestrade appeared, shed his clothing, and dug a small jar from one of Mycroft’s saddle packs.

“That’s an invitation I can’t refuse,” he said. “Who wants to just watch, when you can play?”

* * *

John’s world grew smaller until all he could see was Mycroft’s lips straining around his cock and all he could feel was the tightening of his own balls and all he could hear was the collective groans and grunts of three horsemen on the edge of release. He adored the look of pure wanton lust on Lestrade’s face as he pounded into Mycroft’s arse, and he eyed the sweat that was pooling on Mycroft’s lower back and the flexing of Lestrade’s chest muscles with no little lust. He wanted to run his tongue across them both.

So focused was John that he didn’t notice the flock of woodland birds that startled and fled at Lestrade’s wild groans.

Nor did he notice the pitter-patter of forty-eight feet in the hollow log beneath his head.

* * *

Twelve sets of tiny black eyes widened. Twelve hard-shelled, pointy-eared, long tailed creatures froze before the pale rider.

“War is right,” said Sherlock, studying them. “You do have a certain charm, a charm that I fear might be lost if John has his way with you and makes you lepers as well as carriers of leprosy.” He nodded to the scene by the log. “I’ll keep them occupied for another hour. John’s afterglow might buy you another half-hour, which is more than enough time to put considerable distance between you and him. On you go. You have nothing to fear. Death will watch over you.”


	8. Fire (No smut. Philosophy, fluff, and a bit of humour.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft, John, and Lestrade talk about fire. No smut. Just philosophy and fluff. And Sherlock offering an armadillo a roasted marshmallow.
> 
> For the JWP prompt #26: Elementally, My Dear Watson.

Mycroft studied the glob.

Perfect.

An even light brown on the outside and, no doubt, a hot, gooey, delicious mess inside, superior, in every way, to the sugar-lump of flaming charcoal that Sherlock favoured.

Despite the marshmallow’s perfection, however, Mycroft had no appetite.

He propped his stick against a stone, then glanced at his two companions: their faces lit by crackling flames; their eyes glazed.

Tonight, the three of them were consumed by a single thought.

Fire.

“It is so quick,” mumbled John. “Nothing of mine works that fast. Just, ‘whoosh!’ and everything is gone. People, animals, trees. Even germs.”

“I use it,” said Lestrade. “But to see it in its pure form.” He shook his head. “It doesn’t need weapons. Or hate. It is completely indifferent and yet so utterly devastating.”

“Fire,” said Mycroft, “makes humble that which thinks itself grand. It is powerful, efficient, and ruthless. My work shall, of course, increase significantly…”

Not only did Mycroft not feel like eating, he did not feel like working. Or fucking, for that matter.

The power of Nature, indeed.

“When it’s tamed like this,” said John, gesturing to the bonfire, “it inspires.”

“And warms,” added Lestrade.

“And transforms,” said Mycroft, eyeing the marshmallow.

“But when it’s,” John waved to the glow in the distance, “like that, it’s pure destruction.”

They fell into silence.

Finally, Mycroft decided to take his leave.

“Well, I believe I shall retire for the evening. Feel free to stay as long as you wish.”

They both looked at Mycroft with such bereft expressions that he felt compelled to say something and yet, at the same time, was equally—and perhaps most unusually for a very unusual evening—at a loss as to what to say.

He offered a silent prayer for guidance, and the words that sprang from his lips were so foreign that he was humbled once again, but this time by the thought that he truly was a mere instrument.

He exhaled and asked,

“Fancy a cuddle?”

* * *

With John and Mycroft snuggled on either side of him, Mycroft thought he resembled nothing so much as hen with a pair of chicks underwing. It was not an unpleasant sensation, but he did feel quite…

…broody?

…downy?

…fluffy?

Yes, Mycroft felt fluffy for the first time in his existence.

* * *

“Marshmallows!” cried Sherlock. He shoved the tip of the stick into the hot coals and did not retrieve it until the glob was a black ball of fire. Then he devoured the crusty, crunchy, sticky mess and grinned.

“Perfect.”

He spied the two other sticks. “More! I’ve certainly got an appetite tonight.” He chattered to himself. “Work, work, work. Why do you work so hard, Sherlock? Oh, I don’t know. Death never takes a holiday.” He stopped at the sound.

“Fluffy?”

He brandished a marshmallow-impaled stick at the pointy-eared, beady-eyed, hard-shelled, long-tailed intruder that materialised from the shadows.

“Marshmallow?” Sherlock offered. Its ears twitched. “Delicious, but I warn you, it’ll be the Death of you.” 


	9. It's not the Heat, it's the Sanguinity. (No smut. Fluff. More armadillos.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During a blood moon, John and Lestrade try to cool off. And the armadillos are still running.
> 
> No smut. Fluff. Rating: Teen. 
> 
> References to Revelation 6:12-13 _"And I beheld...the moon became as blood; And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind."_
> 
> For the Watson's Woes prompt #28: "In July the sun is hot; Is it shining? No, it's not."

John mopped his brow with the tail of his tunic. “It might be high noon,” he said.

“At midnight,” replied Lestrade. “All the stars are out.”

“Blood moon.”

“Like nothing I’ve ever seen. Or felt.”

At the line where earth and sky met sat a glowing red half-circle. It pulsed like an artery, casting a flickering sanguine shadow on all above and below.

“How much farther?” asked John.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been there. Mycroft said to follow that star. Come on.”

* * *

“There it is!”

They ran, whooping, until they reached the water’s edge, then dove head-first into the dark waters.

“Yes!” cried John. “The water isn’t cool, but it is wet.”

Lestrade sighed. “Finally, some relief. I was going half-mad.”

John pointed. “Look who beat us here.”

“I thought he was a log, floating on his back in the middle of the pond like that. Maybe I’ll surprise him,” said Lestrade. He disappeared beneath the water.

John swam a bit, but soon found it more pleasant to simply float his back, ears full of the echoing susurrus of the water, eyes drinking in the blood moon.

“John.”

“Sherlock!” John righted himself and found that he was close enough to the bank to stand.

Sherlock looked as pale and unflappable as ever, even the red light deigned to touch him.

“You never sweat,” said John.

“Death is, to borrow one of your words, immune from the effects of the blood moon.”

John extended a hand. “Want to join me?”

“Might be a revelation.”

John laughed. “Is that a joke?”

“A pun,” said Sherlock with a shy smile. Taking John’s hand, he stepped gingerly into the water.

Immediately, the water temperature dropped.

John splashed water on his face with his free hand. It was cool and refreshing.

“Is this you?”

Sherlock huffed, then nodded.

In the distance, there was a loud ‘Hurrah!’

“You are extraordinary, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shrugged. “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they normally say?”

“I thought you’d be taller.”

John snorted. “Now you’re taking the piss.”

Sherlock nodded.

“Want to swim?”

“I don’t know how.”

John stared. “Really?”

“I’m not in the life-preserver business, John. I’m in the drowning-people business.”

“Well, why don’t you hang onto my neck and I’ll swim and carry you along?”

Sherlock grinned.

John swam lap after lap, with Sherlock’s urgent pleas of ‘Faster!’ and ‘Again!’ in his ears. At last, he laid Sherlock along a sloped bank and made slow love to him by the light of the blood moon.

* * *

With Sherlock was spent and curled against him, John stared at the moon.

Then he caught sight of something.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

John made to rise. “A dozen sets of very familiar pointy ears scurried by, there, on the far shore.”

“John, the heat and the red shadow are distorting your perception.”

“I’m been tracking those bastards for a long time, Sherlock. I know them.”

Just then, like a fig tree shaken of a mighty wind, the stars of heaven fell.


	10. And there was no more sea. (Finale. All the sex.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their work complete, the Four Horsemen are ferried to the new Jerusalem. Sherlock/John/Lestrade/Mycroft but very John & Lestrade-centric. All the sex. 
> 
> Title comes from Revelation 21: 21 _And I saw a new heaven and a new earth: for the first heaven and the first earth were passed away; and there was no more sea._
> 
> Also for LJ Watson's Woes Amnesty prompt **The sea!**
> 
> Thank you to everyone who's taken this journey with me! I've had a blast. Hope you have, too.

“I got you!”

Twelve sets of beady eyes did not blink. Twelve sets of pointy ears did not twitch.

Then just as John was about to spring…

Something.

Something in the way they looked at him.

He didn’t understand it, but he knew what he had to do.

He lowered his net. “Go,” he said. “I’ll hunt you no more.”

Eleven vanished, but the one that remained tilted its head.

John followed his gaze to dark clouds forming a pair of dots in the sky.

“Snake eyes,” he whispered.

Then a voice boomed from above.

**_It’s time!_ **

John dropped his net at once and followed the armadillo into the forest.

* * *

Once through the trees, John’s guide disappeared, but he spotted Lestrade, Mycroft, and Sherlock gathered by the edge of a vast sea. To their left was a boat which was run upon the shore.

**_Your work is done. This vessel will ferry you home._ **

And with those words, the clouds parted. A beam of light shone down upon an hourglass mounted on the boat. It turned over and sand began to trickle from top to bottom.

The four horsemen bid farewell to their horses, which were grazing in a nearby meadow, then boarded the boat in silence.

Dusk fell. A pale moon rose.

The vessel moved of its own accord, pushing away from land and toward the horizon.

To Mycroft’s relief, the craft was amply provisioned, and after inspecting the sails and other moorings, Lestrade pronounced it quite sea-worthy. At John’s discovery of a barrel of sun-warmed rainwater re-fashioned into a shower, all expressed eagerness for a wash. They cast lots to decide turns.

As the boat piloted itself and the sea was smooth as glass, they decided to have a picnic on deck. John was helping Mycroft bring up food and supplies from below deck when Sherlock appeared.

“My turn!” cried he. “I hope you filthy bastards didn’t used all the water!”

* * *

John sighed into the stream of warm water. Then he felt eyes on him.

Well, best not to disappoint.

He washed himself, then lean back against a wooden wall and grabbed his cock with a soapy hand.

And though he didn’t exaggerate his pleasure, he did convey every single nuance of it as he stroked himself to hardness, with grunts and quiet moans and whispered cursing. He fondled his sacs and even teased his rim with one finger as his other hand pumped.

When he came, he heard three distinct noises mingled with his own. He rinsed himself again, then dressed and returned on deck, calling a hearty,

“Thanks for leaving me some water, lads!”

* * *

“You let them go?!” exclaimed Lestrade, the remnants of their feast scattered about them.

“Yeah. I had them trapped, net ready, but I couldn’t do it. It wasn’t right. Which is ridiculous because I’ve been hunting them for what feels like an eternity.”

They all smiled. Then Lestrade pushed onto his hands and knees and crawled towards him.

John imitated him and met him, head to head, in the middle of the blanket.

Lestrade kissed his lips; a soft, sweet, gentle kiss. “I’m glad.”

“Yeah?” John kissed him back.

“It was the right thing to do.”

Kiss.

“I don’t know.”

Kiss.

“I do. We all do.”

Lestrade rolled backwards as John crawled forwards. Then John twisted until he was sitting, his legs over Lestrade’s. Lestrade leaned back and slicked his hand with an unguent from one of the many jars stashed aboard, then sank his hand into John’s breeches and gripped his prick.

“Saw you watching me in the shower,” murmured John.

“Yeah? You put on quite a show, who wouldn’t?”

“Next time, don’t just watch.” John cast a glance at Mycroft and Sherlock, whose eyes were fixed on him, two sets of pupils blown black. “I want you all to take turns fucking me.”

“Rough?” growled Lestrade with a smirk. His hand moved faster along John’s cock.

“Very rough,” said John. Then he came to a chorus of groans.

At once, John was dragged away from Lestrade and thrown onto his back.

John looked down “Are you hard?” he asked. He began petting Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock stopped lapping up the streams of come that decorated John stomach and met John’s gaze.

“I’ve just watch you come. Twice. What do you think?” he snapped, then he gave John’s limp cock an almost apologetic lick.

“What do you want?” asked John.

Sherlock shrugged and looked away.

This world, the next, this creature will forever slay me, thought John. Then his own eyes travelled to Sherlock’s long, lean, incredibly hard and supernaturally gorgeous cock. “Want to fuck me?” he suggested.

A tiny smile bloomed on Sherlock’s lips. He nodded.

John looked over at Lestrade, who was sitting back against a bank of cushions with Mycroft’s head buried between his legs.

Lestrade met his gaze. His eyes were glassy, but he made a vague gesture toward Mycroft.

John nodded.

* * *

"John!”

John decided it wasn’t bad having your name yelled by two gorgeous men at the same time. Mycroft, because John’s tongue was buried deep inside him and Sherlock, because his cock was fully sheathed in John’s arse.

Mycroft’s cock-sucking of Lestrade had slowed as John rimmed him, but Lestrade didn’t seem to mind.

He chuckled. “Tongue my baby good, John. Nice and deep the way he likes it.”

John found himself growing hard again, not just from Sherlock’s occasional brush of his prostate with his thrusts, but also from syrupy filth that dripped from Lestrade’s lips.

“My baby is such a brilliant cock-sucker. Such a gorgeous whore, spreading his cheeks, offering his little hole for you to tongue, John. Such a greedy tart, too. I bet when he goes to sleep, he’ll want a cock head in his mouth to suck like a dummy. Are you going to want that, baby? Maybe one in his arse, too, bit of a lullaby-fuck.”

Mycroft grunted and pushed back into John’s ministrations.

“Cock-slut, cum-slut, so beautiful, so needy, bet he’s going to swallow it, not save a drop. Biggest, greediest, most perfect little cum-slut in the land.”

Mycroft whined.

* * *

Lestrade’s head fell back, his mouth slack. “Oh, God,” he moaned.

John abandoned his rimming of Mycroft when Sherlock’s thrusts reached a violent and erratic crescendo. Then he felt the flood of Sherlock’s come inside him and watched as Lestrade buck hard into Mycroft’s mouth. He put his hands on Mycroft’s buttocks and pushed himself to kneeling as soon as Sherlock pulled out.

“Come here,” whispered Lestrade. Mycroft’s form blocked John’s view but he heard Lestrade’s husky voice. “That last bit’s bullocks. We all know there’s no bigger cum-slut here than me. Give me a taste, my love.”

“Fuck,” breathed John. He reached an arm behind him and curled it around Sherlock’s head. “I’m hard again,” he confessed as Sherlock pressed kisses along the side of his face and neck.

“Suck you?” asked Sherlock, his hands sliding around to tease John’s nipples.

“Yeah,” grunted John. “And I betting Princess Cum-slut here will lick the dripping mess out of my hole while you do.”

Lestrade snorted, then laughed. "You know me so well."

* * *

“Oh, God,” moaned John.

Two mouths on him. Front and back. His cock and his hole.

And there was Mycroft, in front of him, with his own prick in hand.

“Do it,” said John, feeling his body tighten. “Make a fucking mess of me.” He opened his mouth and closed his eyes as his orgasm gripped him, and Mycroft’s splashes hit him just he pumped his own seed into Sherlock’s mouth. Then he collapsed onto his back on the blanket, knowing that it was Lestrade’s tongue making one wide pass through the mess on his face and chest. He giggled at the tickling touch and said,

“I suppose I need another shower now.”

* * *

 

Having just spent themselves, Mycroft and Sherlock could only watch as Lestrade pinned John to the wall of the makeshift shower stall.

“Is that you got, princess?” growled John.

“Mouthy little thing, aren’t you?” replied Lestrade, his voice as low and raw as John’s. “Bet you’d like to suck this cock, too, but that’s not going to happen.” He yanked John away from the wall then, with a hand to his back, shoved him forward. John bent, his arms stretched, hands braced against the wall.

After a rough thrust of one, then two fingers, Lestrade sank his cock into John’s hole.

And as with the first shower, John was purposefully vocal, expressing the pleasure-pain of the taking with surprised shouts and sharp hisses and comically vulgar aspersions on Lestrade’s virility and his character.

By the time Lestrade slammed into John for the last time, participants and spectators were gasping for air.

John caught his breath first. Accepting Sherlock’s hand, he righted himself, looked at his companions and panted,

“Well now, who’s ready for a cuddle?”

* * *

They dozed on deck.

John woke to quiet noises of pleasure and saw Lestrade kneeling into a long bank of cushions while Mycroft rimmed him.

He was content to watch and listen until he felt Sherlock’s nose in his armpit. John turned and met Sherlock’s gaze with one raised eyebrow.

Sherlock huffed. “Naturally, John.”

John took his place beside Lestrade.

“Oh, God, John,” he moaned.

“Yeah, good, eh?”

“You have no idea.”

“I think I’m about to.”

Lestrade glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock. “Once you’re hard, we’re going to fuck that sweet arse together once more, for old times’ sake.”

“If he’s amenable,” added John, who got a bite to his buttock as a response.

“Then,” continued Lestrade, “I’m going to do any and every little thing that my gorgeous lover desires until that sand runs out.”

“Sounds like a plan, Captain.”

* * *

Lestrade and John fucked Sherlock as Mycroft licked and bit their shoulders, necks, and backs. They fucked Mycroft, cocks in his mouth and arse, as Sherlock made disparaging observations about their prowess and physiques aloud. Then they gave Sherlock the spanking that he so desperately wanted—and so richly deserved—and made him watch them fuck each other. And Mycroft again.

And finally, with bodies and lusts completely spent, the four curled up together in a berth below deck, resembling nothing so much as a warren of sleeping bunnies.

* * *

The thunder woke John first. He ran up on deck, with Lestrade close at his heels.

Pitch-black sky. Rising wind. Choppy waves.

They turned to each other and said, “Storm.”

And though Mycroft was the as one at the ship’s wheel when the storm was at its peak, there was no doubt who was in charge. Lestrade barked orders. He and John scurried back and forth, working frantically to keep the vessel from tipping. The only one not concerned with their predicament was Sherlock. He balanced precipitously on the edge of the bow in a bedsheet that whipped around him like a shroud. He gazed into the darkness and gracefully rode the dips and swells like a circus acrobat atop a prancing elephant.

“John!” screamed Lestrade as the horizontal sheets of rain cut them like razors.

“Yeah?!”

“This journey isn’t just a reward!”

“Yeah, I got that. It’s also a test!”

“Look!” cried Mycroft, pointing.

Sherlock twirled around, too, and they all stared as the last grain of sand dropped in the hourglass.

Then just as quickly as it had commenced, the storm ceased.

The sea calmed. The dawn broke. The fog lifted.

And the Four Horsemen found themselves on the shores of the new Jerusalem.

* * *

Four white robes hung in the limbs of the two stalwart oaks that flanked the entrance to the glittering city.

They changed clothes, then stood in silence, waiting.

Then a queue of twelve beady-eyed, pointy-eared, hard-shelled, long-tailed creatures appeared from behind them, scratching a path towards the closed gates.

Suddenly, the armadillos transformed. Tails and ears disappeared. Hard shells split and paled.

And became wings.

They lifted off the ground and pushed open the gates.

“Angels,” said John with awe.

“Son of a—“

John clapped a hand over Lestrade’s mouth.

Then a voice said,

**_Well done, good and faithful servants._ **

**_Welcome home!_**  


End file.
